


Beaches

by rainaftersnowplease



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:59:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainaftersnowplease/pseuds/rainaftersnowplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A secluded lake house, a Savior, and a Queen.</p>
<p>Established Swan Queen</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beaches

Beaches in Maine must be younger than beaches on the west coast. They aren’t so much littered with rocks as they are coated in them, and from a distance still they look smooth as clichés off the tongue. Up close, the looking is more textured. Harder.

“You are a moron, Miss Swan.”

Her ankle looks like she taped two ankles together, and the whole of her lower leg is already staining brilliant purple. It throbs with her heartbeat and the response in her brain. What else can she say?

“I know.”

Regina presses a towel to her ankle. The gathered ice inside crinkles and crunches into ankle-blob form. Emma hisses a breath in through her teeth, yanking her foot away from the cold and the pressure.

“I think this may be beyond ice,” Regina says. Her eyebrows creep upward. Her mouth hinges, hangs open in persuasive suggestion. The pain in Emma’s ankle dulls for a moment.

“You are not taking me to Whale,” she says. She tilts her chin down toward her chest as she speaks, defensive of her place on the opulent red couch.

Regina throws her hands up. The melted ice in the towel sprinkles the hardwood on the floor behind her.

“You are stubborn at the worst of times,” she accuses. “What if it’s broken?”

She turns sharply away from Emma. Mutters to herself. Emma can just barely hear the steam and tick of the word “stupid” under Regina’s breath. She is about to object, but then she notices how firmly Regina’s nails seem to be stuck in her empty palm. The word isn’t meant for her.

“I’m sure it’s just a bad sprain,” Emma says. “A bit of rest and ice and I’ll be hobbling around, good as new.”

“That’ll be quite a feat, since you’re in too much pain for either of those things.”

Emma hops to her feet, or rather, foot. Her one uninjured leg can’t quite flamingo her into standing balance, so to grab at the ice-towel she has to skip over to Regina and grab her shoulder. She remains precariously upright, holding onto the sleeve of Regina’s shirt.

“Give me the damn ice, you overdramatic apple in a pantsuit,” she demands, finally attempting a grab for the towel. Her weight teeters on the outside edge of her good foot, and threatens to teeter them both right to the floor.

Fortunately, Regina is stronger than Emma is heavy. She ballasts them standing, twisting to net the flailing Savior in her arms.

“What did you just call me?” Regina asks. Her grip on Emma’s waist tightens, to allow her to scoot her good leg back into balance underneath her.

“Incredibly difficult,” Emma says, reaching again for the towel and the ice inside. “It’s just a sprain.”

Regina holds the towel aloft, out of the grabby reach of Emma in her arms. The other woman stretches briefly in vain, then drops her arm and her weight against Regina’s side. Regina can no longer see her face, stuffed as it is in the curve of her neck. But she can feel Emma’s lower lip protruding against her skin.

“Stop your pouting, Miss Swan,” she says, laughing in her short, low way. Droplets of icy, melted runoff rivulet down her arm and she continues, “I might have a better idea for ankle care – one that won’t ruin my hardwood floors.”

__________________________________________________________________________

The lake house had been an afterthought, because she hadn’t created the lake. But a mayor who is really a queen needs a quiet place, and mayors and queens don’t hunker down in a room at Granny’s when rest makes its call.

Unlike the mansion, which is starkly, glittering, look-at-me white, the lake house is muted. One level of dark, homey woods. The driveway remains unpaved. The only bit of visible metal is the hinged flag on the dark green mailbox. A wraparound porch greets them when they arrive – the polish of a clear lacquer the only protection for their hands against the raw, dark wood of the steps’ railing.

“How’d you dream up this place?” Emma asks.

“Even mayors have their secrets, Miss Swan,” Regina says. She joins her at the top of the steps. “A nice retreat should be first on every Evil Queen’s curse list.”

Emma indulges her with a smile – the half twist of lips and scrunch of chin she gives to ludicrous tales of stories come to life. If Regina’s planned happy ending included a secluded cabin in the remotest corner of Storybrooke’s forest, well.

“I’m honored you’d share it with me,” Emma says.

“Don’t go turning into a puddle of gratitude on me just yet,” Regina says, but also flashes a glittering smile at her.

Emma turns her face serious and gives a nod feigning curt. An old game now, their faux-serious banter. They keep it for the look, and the nostalgia – a necklace of faded silver feeling that wards others away from the truth:

They have not privately begrudged each other feelings in almost a year.

“Do you want to see the rest?” Regina asks. “We can unpack the care in a bit.”

Emma sees the hopeful creases her smile folds into her cheeks. In many ways, Regina is still the young woman from the Enchanted Forest, eager not to be alone. Wanting to share what she can. Open in ways the Evil Queen never allowed herself to be.

Not for the first time, the gentle hero she should have been radiates, and she is more sunshine than every drop of sun reflected off the glassy lake behind them. More than the yellow bug she only drives when no one is around to see. More, eve, than the spray of sunshine hair across their pillows in the dark.

The sun is blinding, and Emma looks away.

“Lead on,” she says.

Regina follows her gaze to the dark, carved door. Emma follows her inside when she goes.

___________________________________________________________________

Even tucked into the back pocket of the lake, the house is not without modern conveniences. Conveniences like indoor plumbing and electricity, for two. Dark hardwood floors, granite countertops. Emma is fairly sure the furniture is custom made. This is camping the way the richest foster family of her dreams might have done it. Turns out, all it took to get it was an evil curse and the interference of one persistent kid.

Regina helps her down the steps into the basement. They, too, are polished wood. The banister Regina leans her weight against between steps is carved to look like braided rope. The craftsmanship is so good, Emma half believes it a real braid of strands instead of carved from a single plank. She expects a lavish, finished basement when they reach the last step. The upstairs level is large, open in concept and lit naturally with huge bay windows that run floor to ceiling in some places. But that is not what she sees when they finally reach the bottom of their descent.

Instead, what are polished hardwood floors above is an unfinished concrete surface below. A woven area rug is the only soft surface on the floor, and that is shunted to the side underneath the one armchair in the room. It faces the black brick fireplace. A small bookshelf sits within arms’ reach of the chair. But the ensemble is not the focal point of the room.

In the middle of the basement, carved into the concrete floor, is a large elemental wheel. Emma recognizes it from the set of red, leatherbound books Regina keeps in her office. The wheel adorns all the spines of those books, though Emma has never cracked a single one. Still, it doesn’t take a genius to know that this room has been used for nothing but magic since the house was created.

“Is this where you take me to kill me?” Emma asks. “I know the ankle looks bad, but I don’t think it’s quite time for me to take a trip to the glue factory.”

Regina laughs. Emma feels the reverberating mirth against her body, close as they are with Regina supporting her weight.

“I’m not ready for you to go the way of Old Yeller just yet, Emma,” she says. The muted middle of her name from Regina’s mouth is a welcome as it is rare. “We’re just killing two birds with one stone.”

“What does that mean?” Emma asks, though she has the nagging feeling in the back of her skull that the answer is readily apparent, judging only by the decor.

Regina guides her to the middle of the wheel in the ground.

“Can you stand here on your own, or would you rather sit?” she asks, gesturing to the armchair by the hearth.

“I’ll stand,” Emma says. 

Regina leaves her to balance on her beanpole of a good leg, walking backwards toward the chair she had offered to Emma not seconds before. She begins to sit down, and Emma reaches out and hops in her direction before the chair spins to catch her before she can fall butt-first to the concrete floor. Regina smiles at the concerned look on her face. She crosses her legs and leans back against the plush, red back of the chair.

“This is not my first time sitting, Miss Swan.”

Emma’s upturned eyebrows turn down, miffed, and she says, “Well excuse me for not wanting you to fall on your ass in your own basement.”

Regina’s smile widens. Toothy, but not predatory as she’s seen it before. Amused.

“Stay still,” she says. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?” Emma asks. The water and earth element symbols in her view begin to glow faintly blue and green, respectively. “Regina?”

“Healing is light magic,” Regina says, no longer looking at Emma’s face in amusement but at her injured ankle in concentration. Her brow furrows, the way brows do in concentration. But it furrows a little harder than Emma -- who has seen Regina throw the weather around without strain -- has ever seen it furrow in preparation for magic.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Emma tries to hedge, but the lights are now creeping toward her, melding into a seafoam roil of energy.

“Piece of cake,” Regina whispers as the lights inchworm their way up Emma’s injured leg.

Emma grunts. The feeling is not unpleasant, but also not like any treatment she’s had for sprained ankles before. The light buzzes around her leg, concentrating around the ankle with a static-like vibrating sensation not unlike a muted version of waking a sleeping limb. It dissipates much more suddenly than it appeared, almost quicker than a blink. Emma stares at her leg, now shrunk to its normal size and back to its milky white normalcy. It still hums tactily with energy, but Emma presses a bit of her weight down onto the ball of her once-injured foot and finds it stable. Pain-free.

“Not bad,” she says.

“Better than waiting for ice and Advil to take effect, hm?” Regina says, rising from her seat to stand with Emma in the circle.

“Much better,” Emma agrees. She looks down when Regina weaves their fingers together in a familiar plait. Regina can’t remember a time when even such a simple action didn’t prompt her Savior into an embarrassed lack of eye contact. She smiles so Emma can see it when she finally looks up again.

It’s what their relationship has always been. Large gestures hiding small tells. When they kiss, it is, as ever, a quick brush of lips. Hardly long enough for either of them, but then.

“We’re terrible at this,” Emma says.

“I think we’re better than before,” Regina counters.

“That isn’t really saying much.”

Regina laughs, because it’s true. But the difference is real, and it’s there. And even if Emma isn’t quite able to admit it yet, she feels that difference, too. She must.

No Savior would allow an Evil Queen to squeeze her hands quite so intimately otherwise.


End file.
